My husband is a prisoner,
a prisoner in our home,
a prisoner in his head,
a prisoner in our relationship,
a prisoner in his family,
a prisoner in life.
He wants so much to be free but the longer he’s a prisoner the less able to reach freedom he is.
“F*&K Off” he yells at me, sat on the stairs, glowering black eyes, bared teeth, he is not there. What sits on that step is not my husband but an outline of him filled with a fury and rage. I take the verbal abuse, Im not scared, Im just sad, sad he has disappeared again, he’s like a time traveller, one moment he’s here the next he’s gone, left in his place is this shape of uncontrollable rage, blackness and despair. A visitant…
You’re in there, lurking, insidious, evil.
Tattoos of emotion, ink in skin, painful when new, but forgotten & indiscernible over time..
I’d tried to cover the purple with foundation, it hadn’t worked, the swelling gave the game away anyway. I wore the purple & yellow & green on my face for a week, hidden under an inch of foundation, it didn’t cover, a reminder that getting married for a holiday was the stupidest reason to get married ever. My first anniversary present was a broken nose & black eyes. Thanks for that.
He said he loved me, said that it was all going to be ok, that I should just lie back on the rug, that it was no more fingers & thumbs. There was trust, but here I am watching him. There’s a line of girls, he’s in the corner outside the girls toilets, propped up in the arms of a classmate as she grinds on his thigh, her lips on his. Others wait, as she takes a drunken breath and steps back another one stumbles in her place and assumes the position, leg lock, face lock, he’s loving it. He’s holding a pint! I watch from the top of the clubs stairs. As the girls walk off they drunkenly laugh in my face, happy with their small victory. They know he’s supposed to be mine, but he made me agree. We agreed that we should hide our feelings, have an open relationship, play the field, but stay together, just not in public. I agreed to it to keep him, I would do anything for him, my first love, my boyfriend. My boyfriend! So what the hell are those girls doing? They all know he’s mine. No they don’t, because I agreed. I’m livid but I will look the fool, my jealousy boiling so intensely I can burn holes through the girls heads into his eyes. But he doesn’t see me, he’s too drunk. When he does I’m furious, I’m hurt & angry & crying, then it’s my fault for being the psycho bitch, that’s how he gets me, how it becomes my fault. I have to witness his betrayal but play it cool, I can’t. I’m too emotional. When Im upset he plays the ‘you’re crazy, I’ve had enough’ card. It’s how it works, it keeps happening, until eventually he tires of my craziness caused by his philandering. Of course it’s my fault, I agreed to it. Why did I agree to it? Because he’s my boyfriend, he said he loved me, said that it was all going to be ok….
She tentatively steps partner to partner,
Choosing the damaged ones, flawed.
The fun of the challenge fades, like her scars.
She stops at a mirror,
her face changed over the years by the movement of bones,
moved by them, their hands.
The chipped tooth front & fore.
What happens now?
Run again or suffer?
The choice was always the same.
The mirror gave her the answer.